The PuppetMaster (26 page)

When her eyes drew back, they were smiling. “You are the gift given to me. We are given to each other.”

“Not to point out the obvious, but you hardly know me.”

“Ya, but I want nothing more than to learn who you are.”

This time, I kissed her. Slowly. I felt her back arch with a small shudder, her legs push softly against mine. Both of us realized, as we turned onto her new street, that small Indian taxis weren't manufactured for physical romance. With a soft smile, I asked, “And at what point did all this need to know me come to you Ms. Hadersen? No, let me guess. When I led you up the street with all the flowers and sweets? When your eyes were closed? That was it, wasn't it?”

“No. Actually I knew the moment I saw you take a sip of your smoothie in Haroon's.”

That caught me by surprise. “Really? Rather early on wouldn't you say, since you hadn't met me or even heard my voice. I could have talked like Mickey Mouse.”

The little squeak of pleasure that was uniquely Uli came out. “It was your lips, Schnuki. The way they wrapped themselves around that straw. Gott. It made me wish I was standing in the middle of that glass instead of it.”

What lips could resist such a compliment? I kissed hers.

We entered the flat and Jitka looked like she wanted to shred something into small, ragged strips, most likely me. Hunger seemed to have that affect on her. But Uli sent her a sharp look and the message was sent through the language of sisterhood that something dreadful had happened.

The flat was already glistening from the positive effects of Jitka's strong hands. Broom, soap, and cloth had been put to good use and there was a noticeable to sparkle to it all.

We were a ravenous trio, so I trotted alone to a tea stall to purchase rice, masala dosas, pakoras, and enough sweets and drinks to call it dinner.

When I returned Jitka looked softer, more sympathetic.

We dined on the masala dosas at the kitchenette table, the chili in the crepes causing tears and smiles to come to our eyes. Uli lit candles and turned it into a pastoral banquet.

No one spoke of Soma or death, the conversation instead turning to the cycle of the rains and the paradox of Varanasi, the opulent grandeur next to grim impoverishment. At one point, through a mist of fatigue, I explained how I viewed it, “It’s contrasts and opposites living side by side on equal terms. The whole country is that way really. Anything you can see or feel has an opposite waiting around the corner. Modern and old, bland and spicy, rural and urban. Polytheism next to monotheism and no one bothered by it. Calm or chaotic. Hindus see it as the union of opposites, like night entering day.”

Uli’s knee rested against mine under the table. With a twinkling smile she added, “Like that phallic stone you see everywhere. The lingum and yoni?”

Jitka summed it up with, “Ya, I vondered why there were so many pecker und pussies everywhere.”

I couldn’t much to add to that.

Standing at the sink, drying the dishes, I thought about the difficulty of finding a late hour taxi to my villa. I could walk the four blocks if need be, but the weariness in my limbs made the idea unattractive.

Jitka said goodnight with hugs for both of us, and Uli took my hand and led me to the small porch above the yard. She pulled me close and her hips rolling into mine. Tiredness began to slip away as I said, “My world has shifted so quickly, Uli. Pieces of it feel so right. You especially. What Adam talks about; they feel . . . so clear.” She didn’t say anything, just kissed my neck and slipped her hand under my kurta, along my chest, and down along the flat of my stomach. With her head against my chest, she listened. “The work with my teacher, it’s good. Voices tell me it is important. But, there is so much I don’t understand, scary things. Soma was murdered, and I have no idea why. The worst part is, I don't even know who to trust or what to do.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment, gave a small, very out-of-place giggle and lifted the front of my shirt to nibble on the muscle above my nipple. She bit the skin just hard enough to make me wince. With mischief in her eyes, she said, “Three things my Bhim needs to do, maybe not in this order. But they should be done. First, talk with Sahr und hear her advice. She knows this city und the people. She can help. Second, take me home with you und let me shampoo you. You smell like old river water und sadness. Und third, and most important, make love to me. Tonight.”

Forty-Three

Memory is a mysterious entity, receding into shadowed places just when we need it most. Far too often it re-enters an hour after our need for it is gone. It hovers unwanted when we wish nothing more than for it to leave us in peace. But sometimes, sometimes it enters right on cue.

I had forgotten the sensations of cool water and long fingers in my hair, of chamomile soaps and scented shampoos lathered by someone else, of tenderness and love scrubbed along my body. I hadn't kept the memories of loving hands sliding along my thighs, my legs, and the souls of my feet, because I had waged a battle to banish them and won. But when Uliana bathed me that night by candlelight, they all returned like well rehearsed actors--entering right on cue. Every sensation.

We made love in air cooled and freshened by new rains. I touched her with tentative hands at first, and she drew me into her gently and slowly like estuary water. Our rhythms quickened and surged in unison and we rose to a sweet and tumultuous climax.

In the quiet moments and receding waves, as she nestled into my arms, I felt a luscious sense of healing. It increased tenfold when she propped herself on her elbows, looked directly at me and said, “I am here, Bhim, und won’t leave until you tell me to.”

“That won’t happen.”

“Good, because I would get very petulant if you do.”

“I’ll bet you’re very pretty when you’re petulant.”

Squeezing my thigh between hers, she whispered, “You don’t want to find out.”

I fetched us mint tea and pastries from the kitchen, and afterwards we made love again, longer, more transcendent, love. As we slipped from wakefulness towards sleep where no nightmares waited, she giggled dreamily, “Ach, I knew I was right. The moment I saw those lips, I knew they would taste like powdered sugar.”

The only person reasonably close to being as happy as Uli and me the next morning was Sahr. She had never aligned herself with local mores, preferring to live by her own set of values, and the occasion of my tryst with Uli didn’t bother her one bit. Quite the opposite, she couldn't stop smiling. First at Uli, then at me. Even the pall of Soma’s death couldn't subdue the lightness in the kitchen that morning.

“Would Memsahib like the incredibly delicious Uttar Pradesh breakfast, or the bland white toast Master Bhim forces me to fix?”

“That was evenly stated, Sahr. No prejudice there,” I mumbled into my coffee.

“Sahr, you may fix me whatever you wish,” Uli replied, “und please, I mustn't be a memsahib. I think you must have at least thirty years before that title can be used. I am Uliana, Uli to friends, und since we are now friends . . .” She rose to retrieve the carafe of coffee and Sahr waved her back down.

With an undisguised frown in my direction-- the elephant's trunk rearing feistily--Sahr announced, “I will prepare Miss Uli parathas, samosas, dahi, and jalebis, and you, O Great Rajah, get toast.”

“Is there any orange marmalade to go with it?”

“Oh yes, that will spice it up nicely.”

As she set the steaming bowls in the center of the table in hopes that I would partake of some of it, Sahr's eyes rested sadly on mine. “I am so sorry about the young widow, Bhimaji. I know she warmed your heart, and you did much for her that will come back to you. It is a horrible custom, this shunning of widows, especially the young ones that might have a chance of re-marrying.”

I noticed Uli listening carefully to the conversation. “Thank you. She was warm in my heart, still is. I will miss her greatly, especially her smile.”

Sahr clenched her fist. “Such an ugly custom it is. I remember not so far in the past when we widows were expected to put on our best white saris and leap like hysterical fools onto our husband's funeral pyres. Can you imagine such foolishness? In my case, I would have fried next to a sot who was unconscious from sharab before every sunset. Drank himself to death before he was thirty. Pay homage to that drunkard and bake myself like a chapatti for him? Hah, not in this life.”

I knew it had been difficult for Sahr when her husband died—more from financial hardship than grief. Her clairvoyance had been her only means of revenue, and in the beginning it was a pittance, but word spread, and eventually it provided well for her and Lalji. She also spoke English, and that made the difference.

Two years after her husband died, she found employment with an elderly British couple who took tea punctually at three, dressed in post-Regency attire, and read Lord Byron and E. M. Forester to each other in the evenings. They adored Sahr. The ‘Colonel’ and Glinnis were remnants of the British Raj, properly refined and proud. They had been the toast of society in their day. Now their society was each other. The others had all passed. A few years before my arrival, on the ‘Colonel’s’ eighty-fifth birthday, Sahr returned from market to find them both dead from a self-administered poison. It had been in their three-o’clock tea.

Dipping a samosa into fresh yogurt, and smacking my lips loud enough so she would hear, I announced, “Breakfast of the gods, Sahr, and, oh yes, something else. I think I need your advice. Change that, I know I need it.”

Instantly she set the honeyed jalebis on the table and sat down. “Advice I have, Bhimaji, especially for you.” She winked at Uli.

“Well, I need your prophetic talents to peer into events of the past few days. A card reading with Meghaduta, maybe a séance with your river bhuta.”

She looked immediately disappointed, almost crestfallen, which surprised me as I assumed my request would have been well received. Uli noticed the look also and added, “Sahr, Bhim has no one to turn to. There was no sense to Soma's murder und corrupt officials may be involved. He needs your help.”

Sahr squeezed Uli's hand and replied, “No, Memsahib, do not misunderstand my look. There is nothing that I would rather do than help my Bhimaji and his premika with the beautiful hair of gold, but you are asking me to look into the past.”

Then it hit me—the little fact she had mentioned years ago. My housekeeper looked into the future. “The past is the wrong side of the stars for me,” she sighed. “I'm not permitted to ask there. But there are those who see the past as well as I see the future.”

“So you do know someone, another nabi, who might be able help? Someone you trust?”

She stared out the window, then at Uli, and the birthmark rumpled deeply. In her eyes I saw hesitancy, then fear. It was odd. Before uttering a word she took our hands, ostensibly to form some barrier against a nosey bhuta that might be floating over our kitchen counters. Her voice dropped. “There is one, and she is no charlatan, but she is . . . ” More hesitation.

“Expensive?” I asked.

“No, no. She’s less interested in coins than the counterfeits along the river that pocket rupees and roll bones in the dirt. No, this one is very skilled and very powerful. But sometimes she demands payment in strange ways . . . and she isn't one you would care to be indebted to.”

Uli smiled, then began frowning, thinking, I believe, that the payment might involve sexual favors. None of it made sense. “What kinds of payment?” I asked.

She answered slowly, “Sometimes she likes to search deeper into one's past than one likes. That is what is said, anyway. We would need to be cautious.”

At that instant the bell clanged sharply at the gate. “Tell the teacher we're surfin'. Surfin' USA.” Mej's Cockney voice, horribly off-key, blared with the subtlety of a diesel truck horn, and I recalled with a groan that I had committed to a session with him that morning. I looked at Uli. She stared questioningly back. “A friend. Excuse me, this should only take a minute.” I rose from the table, breaking the bonds of our triangular. Then, feeling a need to explain more, I said, “It's someone I throw Frisbee with. I forgot that I was supposed to exercise with him this morning.”

“Und now you don't want to? You don't want to exercise anymore? Your legs are broken? You want to become plump und wheeze like an old man when you climb the stairs to my flat? Why? Not because of me, BhimajiMartinScott. I want you strong. Go und play.”

With that endearing reprimand all I could think of was sending Sahr off to market and carrying Uli back to bed with me. “No, Ms. Hadersen, it is nothing of the sort. And I believe I have had enough exercise over the last twelve hours to stay in fairly decent shape.” She flushed enough to brighten her cheeks nicely. I went to postpone my appointment with Mej.

“Well that's a fooking shame, Bhimster. I was ‘oping you and me could burn off the three liters of ale I sucked down last night. Pisspond Brewery of Greater Pukestan. Marvelous shite if you ‘aven’t tasted it yet.”

I pushed open the gate with, “No Mej, really. . . any other time. You know I don't like missing the game, but it's been kind of rough around here lately, and I . . . didn't sleep well last night.”

He whistled. “Right-o, Mate. I ‘eard about that shite. Locals are all yackin’ about it. You know that widow girl well, did you? Bloody nasty way to go.” He drew a finger across his throat.